It was afternoon when Penny left, all too glad to get away from her sisters for a brief while. "They are my kith and kin and I love them dearly," Penelope chants through gritted teeth, bending forward over the neck of her horse. She's garbed in white and grey - muted colours, suited for blending into the backdrop of parties, really - with a navy blue cape tossed over her shoulders, the crimson lining of it folded down. Her hair - hastily tucked up this afternoon before leaving - is escaping, the frills of her blouse trailing in a vee formation down her front to her waist. She's slung a satchel over one shoulder, and her horse - a chestnut gelding - digs at the turf impatiently as she sets off.
     "At least I told them not to wait up," Penny mutters to herself as she courses across the turf from the pleasant country estate the girls have been visiting at to the wavering line of trees in the distance. Up a hill, down into a hummock, over the hummock - over a stone bridge across a stream, and there, there are the trees. All the better for escaping social obligations, my dear. "At last!"
     Quickly, she guides the gelding between the trees and into the shade so that the light is dim but visible. Securing the horse's reins to a low-hanging branch, Penny hops back into the saddle, balancing with some difficulty upon it as a ladder. Her satchel is tossed up into the branches, and then she pulls herself up after it, untying her cloak to wad it up behind her as protection from the hard ridged bark. Then she opens her satchel, sliding from it - what else? A book. With a contented sigh, the precious tome is opened, and she settles back against the cushioning of her cape to begin to read.
     "Of bodies chang'd to various forms, I sing:
     Ye Gods, from whom these miracles did spring,
     Inspire my numbers with coelestial heat;
     'Till I my long laborious work compleat:
     And add perpetual tenour to my rhimes,
     Deduc'd from Nature's birth, to Caesar's times..."
     She is lost. Rapt in it, visions of long-ago poetry and the skill to summon forth such visions. Perhaps that is why as the hours creep closer to twilight and the sun bit by bit disappears, Penelope fails entirely to notice the horse below's loosening of its reins from the branch, and then its gradual wandering away. Until she suddenly comes to her senses when the light has failed and even by squinting she can no longer make out the print in her lap. It's then that she sighs, stretching from her perch, and musingly looks around, to find that not only is it dark enough that she can only with difficulty see her hand in front of her face - but she can see her horse not at all. And with her horse gone, so is her ladder. And with her ladder gone, so, briefly, is her composure.
     "Bluebell? Bluebell! Stupid horse, where ARE you! BLUEBELL!" Her voice is something other than dulcet, in this moment...

     It is nearly time to leave this region, no matter how fat it may be. The secret to a long and full life on the King's Road is to stay in motion, forever in motion. The fox can throw off its stealing scent by running through stream, from wood to wood, never lingering long, until his scent becomes a phantom, a stray and abandoned memory.
     The waters of a stream run full with the spring's rain, smoothening the stones wherever it runs, as it has run for thrice a thousand years and more. Only a scant two centuries old, the one who now moves through it is young in comparison. His boots lose their mud and muck as he steps in to cross it.
     In the thickest part of the woods, the paths tangle and become confused. Only the most careful of trackers, only the most persistent of travelers may find the path used by the small-footed deer may find the lush clearing that exists on the other side. In that clearing, the one called Black Jack Davy, also known as Gypsy Davy for his persistence in wearing gypsy garb, playing the violin and consorting with said gypsies.
     Clothes are gathered off of stones and branches where they've hung drying during the day. The road will pass in peace tonight. Even black-hearted thieves require rest. Now and again. Dressed in doe-hide breeches, high boots and an ornately threaded black silk shirt, Black Jack Davy saddles his black horse and takes bow and arrows. Before he can have his supper, he must catch it.
     "She is a sweet vexation," the Davy softly sings as he mounts, "... dearer than the darkness is to me. How can a lady so lovely so cruel should seem to be. She is the general's daughter," so the chorus now sweetly goes, "...and she wears a general frown, her commanding disposition knocks all suitors down..."
     He grins as he sings it, his smile shown to the dark woods. His identity is protected by a black mask that covers his eyes, a silken black and red-threaded scarf, with red silken tassels at the end. Tied like a gypsy's head-scarf behind him, it trails out as he rides. His whistles of the song in progress are answered by the nightbirds.
     "...She will not give me answer, no matter what I say. She is the general's daughter, and I love her anyway..." Spurs gently tap his horse's side as he picks his way through the woods he knows so well. As his horse canters, its ears prick forward and nostrils flare, picking up the scent of another. In the low light of stars and the overhanging moon that spotlights the glade, there's a riderless (but tacked) horse trotting up the wider path, stopping now and again to gather sweet grass by the mouthful, stuffing itself full of the unexpected treats of the road.
     "Shh now," the Davy murmurs to his own beast, slowing it. He stops, dismounting softly, his boots making no sound upon the sod and dirt below. A low whistle let's the horse know he's there, an outstretched hand shows that he is friend, not foe. And a voice inaudible to all but that horse gently whispers to it until its reins are in his hands.
     "Hey now," he pats its neck, "...you're missing something rather important, I'd say." Twisting, the Davy whistles to his beast again, the horse coming forward as he's called. Two sets of reins in his hand, the Gypsy mounts the black stallion and leads the riderless horse along the main path.
     Faintly... he catches the stirring of someone's voice...
     Spurs gently tapping his stallion's sides, the Gypsy encourages both horses to a light canter, heading for the calling in the night.
     Of course, it could be a trap, you know, his fox-brain whispers. No matter, we've given them the slip before...

     "Bluebell! Oh, you stupid horse!" Penny is growing more than just vexed; she's growing alarmed. It is a rather long way down to the ground, and it looks even longer from how she clings to the branch. With a final, resolute little sigh, she stuffs her book into her bag, lowering the satchel by its drawstrings as low as it can go before dropping it. She aims for a patch of leaves in the hopes of not damaging the book more than must be, and there is a wince as it strikes the earth nonetheless.
     "Now how am I to get myself down? Why, why didn't I double-check the knot!" Penny frowns, biting at her lip with a moment's unrestrained savagery. Then, very slowly, she slides to the side, clutching the branch as if trying to strangle it as she feels around for the branch below it. It's by this slow procedure that she makes her way down before finally letting herself fall the last four or five feet. "Umph! Stupid tree!"
     She is actually close to trees, and she flails once, her palm against the tree; it does nothing to soothe her feelings, and now she's got a sore palm as well. The only result of her pounding the tree is that her forgotten cape tumbles down, giving her a bit of a fright. She lets out a little shriek, jumping away and then clutching her hand to her chest before bending to scoop up the cloak. "Best wear it crimson out," Penny mutters, shaking fingers working on the buttons and strings. "It will be more seen if they must send anyone looking for me, and I'd rather not be trampled by horses and riders. Stupid, stupid horse!"
     She turns, distress still on her face as she begins moving along the path, her hair quite tumbled down and caught throughout with leaves and twigs from her descent through the branches. "How much does a horse go for, anyway? Father will pay, I am sure, but Cassie and Helen will make my life unbearable," Penny groans, lifting her hands to her face as she finds the path. "What am I to do? Which way is back? It was light when I left, but..."

     The voice calling out for the lost animal is female. The night is perhaps picking up in interest. Of course, the trap situation remains unchanged until he is able to assess the situation. At least his eyes may have some entertainment before he has to fight his way back to his camp.
     But he's largely unconcerned about that. It comes with the experience of a couple of centuries and his survival through them and of perils far more blatant than this. The tune of earlier is hummed once more, a sweet but comedic ballad, its notes lifting in major keys.
     It is not long before you hear the sound of hooves, a canter slowed to a trot. Is Bluebell returning to your call? There is another sound along with it. That of a second horse...?
     There are figures there in the darkness. Two moving things... one bearing a rider by the sound of leather and the jingling of other equipment. There upbeat and downbeat rhythm of the hooves make a syncopated sound, like a child beating upon a drum. The trotting slows further still, and behind it the soft sound of melodic whistling...

     "Oh, thank g-" Her thanks are cut abruptly short. Two horses. Not one; two. Penelope comes to a halt rather abruptly, and begins backing up. "Who's there?"
     Maybe silence would be a better answer. But a quick review of the facts : she is alone, at night, wearing crimson, and she is on foot. Two horses approach, at least one with a rider on it. She, by contrast, is on foot. There's really no way to hide, and she doesn't know where she is; so only one thing to do.
     Swallow your pride and your fear, Penny, and hope that whoever this is, he is a good Samaritan...
     Penelope holds her ground, stepping to the middle of the path. "Who's there?" she calls out again, trying to put as much authority into her tone as she can. "Hold and identify yourself!"

     He does indeed hold, just as you ask. "I'm the patron saint of lost ladies in dark woods," comes the sweet intonation of his voice. That Voice. "I was washing by a hidden stream when I heard this dandy making his way alone. It is fortunate you were calling." The Davy remains paused. "May I approach, gentle lady, and return your horse to your care? I have no need for another...and Grendel gets quite jealous..."
     As if on cue, the black stallion flares his nostrils and snorts. "He has a bit of an ego," the Davy croons with an audible grin. "I have no idea where he gets it."
     Equipment softly rattles as Bluebell shakes his head and blows his nose. "He's a fine horse, really. You weren't thrown, I hope. Are you injured? I do know something about mending wounds, m'lady... if you require assistance..."
     He is the most polite of thieves and vagabonds, to be sure...

     Oh, no. Not that voice. She knows that voice; hears it in her nightmares. And dreams, though she'd be damned rather than admit it. But the colour rises high into her face. Do you recognise her, with her hair so tangled and windblown, tumbling down around her shoulders instead of up as is meet and proper for travel or for ballrooms? The grey eyes narrow in your direction most suspiciously.
     "You may approach. I'll take my horse and I'll go. I'm not injured." And she's lying, at that. Her palm is red where she hit the horse, there's a scratch on one cheek that oozes a delicate trickle of red blood, and she's limping from where a branch jammed into her ankle. But she'd die rather than admit it - at least at the moment.
     Penelope Carter glowers at her would-be rescuer. "Just - give me my horse and show me how to get back to the main road. I'm sure that I can do without you from there." And then, grudgingly, as if dragged from her by a thousand hands, she mutters, "Thank you all the same."

     His mouth makes a soft and gentle clucking, both horses responding by moving forward. His eyes dart to the woods. Have you brought your father and his men with you? Or was this purely ... destiny?
     He is clothed far more simply tonight, what you can make out. His face cloaked differently tonight, leaving his full mouth visible but concealing the top half of his face... all but his keen eyes.
     Stopping a few paces from you, the Black Jack Davy dismounts. He leads both horses and approaches you on foot. Tall, yes. Imposing, yes. But hopefully less threatening. "Lady Carter, it seems we are destined to run into one another. To your great displeasure, but my delight." His eyes dart around, like the ears of a fox, but he realizes you are alone and he drops the reins of his own horse to the ground.
     Giving your horse a pat on the neck, he hands the reins to you. "Directions... I can certainly provide. But you are bleeding a little," his hand reaches forward but does not touch. "Just a little, a scratch there. I would hate for it to leave a scar and mar your formidable features. You have a nice cheek, Lady Carter."

     No less threatening, it seems. She is without her sisters - whatever little good they may be in a crisis, they help to provide much of her courage. They need her. And here, she is alone. You are very imposing, in her opinion.
     "Destiny has nothing to do with such things," Penelope tells you crossly, snatching the reins from your offering. "I do not believe in such taradiddle. There is no such thing as magic, and even if it were not sinful to contemplate such things, I have no time for it. Do you believe in peasants' superstitious nonsense, then?"
     Those are fighting words, but then, she prefers you at fighting distance. She holds suddenly still, as if afraid of coming into contact with your hand. "I am sure that I am bleeding. It's just a scratch, and if it scars, then it's my own scar to bear, isn't it? And /do/ stop giving me airs to which I'm not entitled!"
     It seems you have inadvertently struck a nerve, for she bats away your hand now, wincing as her scraped palm is exposed to the air; but she's snapping at you for all that. "My mother is Lady Carter; it's something I'll never be. Even if I do not marry, the line will pass upon my parents' death to the nearest male relation - my drunkard of a cousin, Alan! The best that I could hope for would be to marry well, and my father adopt my husband - or one of my sisters' husbands, I suppose - as a male heir, for otherwise the line will die out, and Lady Penelope will no longer matter, will she!"
     She bites her lip; it has been a strenuous afternoon and evening, and Penny takes a deep breath, holding it as she stares at you, biting her lower lip with such vengeance that she might begin to bleed from another part. Are you accustomed to such feminine turbulence being aimed at your head, without your filching jewels or maidenheads? She looks as if, if only she could, she'd loft Bluebell at your head...

     He grins at your rancor, which shall only encourage it he well imagines, and he folds his arms across his silken chest. Where ties of silk lay undone, his skin may be seen, perhaps even the faint impression of marks that lie upon it. "Typically, when one has been done a favor, it is customary to give thanks. Or ... I dare say... a reward...depending on the nature of the favor, of course..."
     Naturally, he's only out for what's in it for him...
     "Your cousin Alan sounds delightful. But I cannot imagine that you truly think you shall remain unmarried, Penelope. If a man is of any worth at all, he would be a match for your intelligence and wit. You are brave, very... that's for certes. Perhaps you are simply meeting the wrong sort of man..."
     Perhaps you should go for an outlaw...
     "Are you certain about that scratch? Superstition aside, I should prefer you be unmarked by a chance meeting with me, than to curse my name whenever you should look into a glass and see the mark. Or would you be cursing your horse instead? I rather doubt it. I make a much better target." His mouth makes a wry sort of smile.

     Her cheeks redden beneath the grime and the thin trickle of blood. "I have no money on me," Penny answers you resentfully. "The only thing I've got on me is my book, and I rather doubt that you'd have a use for that." And you'll be damned for taking it, no doubt. Of course, at this rate, you'll be damned regardless.
     The bitten lip now is revealed in a brief flash as she turns her head; she's been fighting off tears. That was the wrathful glare's true purpose. She wipes the back of her hand against her eyes, averting her face from you, as if turning away will keep you from seeing, from figuring it out. "I do not need to get married," Penny mutters in answer to you. "My sisters can get married and I will be the maiden aunt who rules their lives. Why should things change from what they are? Besides," she adds spitefully, "what matter it to /you/? Don't you have a dancing engagement with my sister, Helen?"
     She turns fully away, now, burying her face in her horse's neck, so that her words are muffled by the beast's warmth. "Stupid horse," she mumbles. "Idiot! Why did you have to come here? It's just as well I'm not superstitious. I'm the one that's cursed. What possible difference could you make to my cheek? If it will scar, there isn't anything to be done about it, is there?"

     "If you do not wish to marry, that is your prerogative, of course. But surely you cannot think yourself unmarryable," it is a gentle statement. "As for the reward," getting back to what's important, "... I want neither coin, nor would I ever deprive you of your books. Have dinner with me. Right now. And I will attend to your cheek and lead you to the road you seek."
     He grins as you mention Helen. "It angered you, that quip? Why, Penelope, I did not know that my dancing would have any effect on you at all. You hate me." Don't you?
     "Haven't you always wanted to have a picnic in the woods with a wanted, but nevertheless genteel and learned thief? I have to say, the worst part of it is eating alone. I don't count Grendel there," named for the character in Beowulf, one may presume.
     "Don't give up so easily, my general, there may always be something to be done about... anything." The Black Jack Davy moves toward you, interlacing his hands to provide a boost for your own mounting.

     She colours, right to her ears where they're revealed by the fall of her hair and to the back of her neck. Your sharp eyes no doubt can pick it out even through the gathering gloom. "I haven't much choice, have I. I can't find the road on my own, and you know it."
     It's in a resigned tone, almost not angry at all - as if her lack of choice makes it the more acceptable to her. She straightens, dragging the edges of her cloak forward, using a panel of material to wipe at her face. "Very well. I accept," Penny tells you, as haughtily as if doing you a favour instead of the other way around. "But do not presume to think that this means that I have changed my opinion of you."
     She eyes your approach skittishly, far more skittishly than Bluebell responded to you. "I can mount on my own," Penny mutters, but - at the least - relents. She refuses to look at you, instead lifting a hand to nudge her hair back from her face. "Do not think that I do not hate you. You are still a thief, and I despise theft. Do you think that you do less damage to people, just because you steal jewels?"

     You take the help, though you resist it. You accept the invitation, though quite begrudgingly. You do nothing but protest. And he finds you quite delightful. "I do never have to doubt your hate, for you so constantly repeat it," he laughs quietly. "I have never been hated with such... fervor," he decides upon that term, rather than passion. Which it most certainly is.
     He mounts his black stallion and leads you off the larger path and to a much smaller one. There is no need to blindfold you -- this camp will be gone by dawn. The small path leads through a deep thicket. He does not ride like a common man. His back is erect. His heels are down. He looks like a prince sitting there.
     "I rather enjoy your hatred. It's so spirited. You're quite lovely when you're angry. But then, I have only ever seen you angry. I do not have a frame of reference," he grins at that. The small path becomes an even smaller path, but he leads you along quite easily. But not swiftly. He is, at the end of all things, a gentleman.
     "I have hurt a great many people, I suspect. Some have not minded a little short term pain. Mostly, those from whom I take have only stolen from others far less fortunate. I do not mean to say that I am noble by any means, but then again... neither were they. Nor is the king, for that matter. You are perhaps the only just person I have ever met...your bravery on your sisters' sake...touched me. Your driver was despicable. I should have killed him for your dishonor..."

     She looks nothing like a princess, so bedraggled and fighting against woebegone is she. Her hair is quite undone, still strewn with leaves and twigs. The cut has ceased to bleed, though now there is a line of blood slowly drying from jewel-red to black against her cheek. "Why ought I not to hate you? You held me and my sisters up - at gunpoint. You would have stolen our mother's sapphires and quite ruined their happiness, to say nothing of Cassie's coming out. It is her first season," Penny tells you staunchly. "They are flibbertegibbets and saucy minxes, but there is not a harmful bone in all their bodies. Yet for a dishonest coin, you would have taken that happiness from them! And what you made me do..."
     She reddens so gloriously, going so brilliantly carmine. The cloak cannot hope to compare. The grey eyes darken and lower as she suffers to be led - you have her quite distracted, even if she were so inclined to try to discover the path once again; and she is not. It is dark, and she is more afraid than perhaps she lets on. She is thinking not of human wolves, right now, but wolves that go padding through forests on four feet and howl when the moon is high. Of bears, of whatever creatures might most like to come across a defenseless little girl and devour her whole - her mind is inventing other horrors to distract her from her wariness of you.
     It especially helps to take her mind from thoughts of what you did or did not make her do...
     To say nothing of her own mixed feelings about that...
     "I am always angry," Penny tells you, small chin lifting peremptorily. It is not quite true. "You will never see me anything but. I defy you to find anyone who has seen me anything else." Little reckoning that your own father, of course, has done just that. But then you are touching upon her supposed nobility, and she has to look away again.
     "We have no brothers, and neither Helen nor Cassandra have committed to a beau. In that lack, what was I to do? Shriek and faint? Someone has to protect them from - from whatever's out there, even if it's from themselves. It just happened to be you." Penny scowls, and you catch the slanting edge of the scowl aimed at you like a knife. "So you did not circle back, then. I imagined not. I am sure that hte driver curses your name even more than I do or shall."

     "Perhaps your father should have named you Hera or Juno instead of Penelope. Penelope was submissive... sitting around all those years waiting for Ulysses to return. He was off with his boyos for some twenty years," he knows the story, "...only to return to find his house full of no goods and opportunists, typically men after my own heart," he chuckles softly at that.
     His hand comes up, holding aside a willow branch for you, and where the thicket thickens to immeasurable and surely impenetrable thickness, you and he move easily. There, a beautiful little clearing, one you've likely not seen in all your explorations of this forest. A lush flowered meadow with a very full stream, deep enough for wading should it come to it. No doubt he's bathed in it -- he certainly doesn't reek of MAN as other men seem to. No, the fox must throw off the scent, yes?
     Bluebell knows a good thing when he sees it. And smells it. The grass is a thick carpet, pocked with periwinkles and small golden buttercups and pink little primroses. Overhead, the moon sits in her silver station, showering the glade with her light. And the canopy of the sky is full of stars.
     "It's a great view, isn't it?" he murmurs, looking up at the stars for a moment. "And... no... I let him live. I'm sure he'll die on his own sooner or later. Most likely sooner with the way he begs. You handled yourself very well, not that you care a pin what I think, or should." He dismounts, dropping the reins to his horse and coming to hold your own. "I'll tie him securely, never fear. He shan't run away twice in one night."
     He offers you his hand as he holds your horse still. He's killing you with kindness. "Do apologize for me to your sisters," the Davy offers gently. "They are quite funny. And you... you are so serious. It was a funny contrast. Do have a seat. Pull up a primrose and make yourself comfortable. By the way, what are you reading?"
     Surely, he can't possibly care. As you dismount and go about making yourself as comfortable as you will allow yourself to be, he crouches, reviving the coals from last night's fire with very little effort on his part. He's like the rangers of old folk tales, fire seemingly all but leaping from his own fingertips. It provides a low glow, nothing that would attract the attention of patrols passing by but one that provides a gentle warmth. Summer nights are still cool.
     The soft light illuminates what features you can see. His eyes are a rich green. His smile is very flirty, his lips... which is all that can be seen of the rest of his face... are quite nice, fuller than the average thin-lipped Brit. There are rich markings of crimson on his skin where ties of his silken shirt lie undone (or done without care).
     "A country supper it shall be... nothing like what might adorn your father's table... but a taste, perhaps, of freedom from such finery." Those eyes, brightly glimmering in the low light, have a smolder to them. They contain his humor, and his legendary carnal nature to be sure.

     "I am sure that I will end up waiting, sooner or later," Penny tells you bitterly. "It's what's expected, isn't it? I had this conversation already." She makes a brief gesture of dismissal, ducking her head to get under the branch you hold for her. And her eyes go wide for a moment - do you see that? And her thoughts take a sideways step.
     Bluebell comes to a halt, and she slides from the saddle with only slight lack of grace; she's favoring her ankle. And her palm. "Yes," Penny agrees, for a moment without anything but that agreement in her voice. "It's very beautiful." It's a quieter voice, this one. You haven't heard it used before. And hurriedly, she sweeps it away as if to lead you to forget that ever you heard it. "He'd better not run away twice. I haven't the patience; I'll see him sold to the French for food, first!"
     She lands on the grass, folding her arms tightly over her chest. "I had him walk back," Penny tells you coolly. "He couldn't protect us, or wouldn't. So I took the coach and I steered it back. It was ... mostly still in one piece by the time we arrived at our family's estate. My father saw to it that what was left was returned to the coachman... by several of his soldiers. I don't know what happened then."
     Nor, to judge by her expression, does she particularly care. She is a vengeful demigoddess. She draws closer to the fire with a little shiver, arms still wrapped around herself as she stares into the coal. She watches you - but sidelong, furtively, as if afraid that you might catch her watching.
     "Stop talking about my father like that." Penny glowers. Will you ever see her smile? She orders you as abruptly as if you were the lowest kitchen drudge, and she drops to the grass with a thump. "My father's table is not a prison. Perhaps you despise all such finery - though from the way you talk, you mustn't be entirely unaccustomed to it. I don't know what's worse - a thief who despises that which he lives off of, or a thief who doesn't even need that which he robs while despising it all the same. You stand there, with your marks showing you like a - like a fox's mask. And .."
     She exhales deeply, cutting her tirade off before it's even truly begun. Penny looks away, feeling the hot prickle of tears again. "Ovid's Metamorphoses," she answers you shortly. "I brought my father's copy with me so I'd have something to do while my sisters were off with their young men."

     "I have not read much of the Metamorphoses. I have, however, read the Ars Amoris," the Art of Love. Yes, you can just bet he has. "It was quite amusing. He speaks so candidly about the relations between women and men, one might think one met him at the local pub and he simply started speaking."
     The Gypsy Davy leans in, blowing on the coals to liven them and then he stands. "I do not mean offense to the Lord General. By all accounts, he seems an honorable man." He takes your Bluebell, leading the gelding to a nearby tree. He ties him very securely, but not restrictively. The gelding can still eat the luscious green grass of the clearing.
     "Not that you asked... well, in a way you have... I wasn't always a thief, no. Not born into it as others are. The king took my lands and my fortune and gave them to another, a relative of his. So... here I am... a lord of the woods," his voice takes on a humored note. "... king of crickets... prince of pollywogs..."
     The Gypsy Davy turns, bringing his saddlebags with him. And the bow and and a few arrows. "When I was born, I was no different from you in station. But necessity sometimes makes a sinner of a saint, a liar of an honest man, and a thief of a nobleman. Now, I take from the king when I can, in hopes I may have returned to me what rightfully belongs to me. Sometimes, however, my aim strikes those ... unintended." Such as you and your sisters.
     Out of his saddlebags, he withdraws a black velvet bag. you remember it. You filled it that night. He hands it to you across the fire. "Here... having met you twice," and danced with you once unbeknownst to you, "... I cannot in good conscience... even a thief's conscience... keep it. You will find all of it there... go ahead and look for yourself."
     As you do that, if you do that, he begins removing your supper. Pears from the market. Cheese. A skin of liquid, most likely not water. Meat that has been salted and dried, cured rabbit. "The forest is full of quail and pheasant. If you had more time to spare, I'd hunt. But... I can only offer what I have..."

     She looks skeptically at you, the frown aimed at you with such blackness as might peel the skin off your flesh. She listens unwillingly - for you have a captive audience, after a fashion. And, almost unwillingly, she takes the velvet bag. Her attention turns to her lap, but she does not open it. Not yet.
     ...If she opens it, she will be quite without legitimate reason for her hatred, and another defense undone, will she not...
     "I did not think that a thief had a conscience," Penny mumbles. Slowly, she draws the bag open, slowly, she spills the contents into her lap. "...Why do you not pursue your revenge off the highway? No matter how much you feel wronged," she isn't about to get into an ideological battle of words with you on this topic, not while she is yet so shocked at this ... valuable return, "what good does stealing merit? Don't you know how much you hurt people by what you do?"
     It is not the self-righteous indignation with which she began to say this. Your move, so unprecedented, has taken some of the wind from her sails. And it is again with that hint of tears to her grey eyes that you are looked upon. Penny draws breath into her lungs, then sighs, looking away.
     "You've made me feel quite the interloper," Penelope mutters. "I will not scorn your hospitality and claim it unfitting. But you lack even a name, and so I cannot call you a proper host."

     "My name... is Rhodri," he answers back. It does him no harm to utter it. Not Rhys ap Whatever, Earl of Whatever, but his actual name. There is such a lilt to that. Is it Irish? Cornish? "I try not to have a conscience, it gets in the way of business. Tell me, what else is a displaced prince to do? I am trained for nothing," he chuckles.
     Settling back, he relaxes by the burning embers, his large form at ease amid the buttercups and primroses. He should have some in his hair. Ah well, if you could see his hair, you might think such. Or perhaps you wouldn't afterall, hating him as you do.
     "I make my money as I must. Mostly, I rob the Church and the King. They have it to spare, they rob it from others. I don't see it as much of a crime." He offers the selection of food to you first. "Take what you want," he murmurs.
     "But traveling lords and their daughters have been marks before. How else might I have had a ballad about me?" He smiles a bit at that, giving you ammunition for your hatred once more. "However, it was rude of me that night... to suggest a dance with your sister after I had received so sweet a kiss. Still, you were rude..." he leads on, inviting your banter.

     "Rhodri." There is the suspicion back in her voice for that; she is unsettled. There is power in names. Why is it that it feels more as if you are gaining the power, and she losing it? "Very well," you receive a grudging nod. "...Penelope. As a prince outranks me."
     Even if it sticks in her craw, a little. She believes you - funnily, there is no squawk of disbelief. You say that you are a prince, and she accepts it. It is as simple as that.
     Perhaps her sisters are not the only naive ones...
     "Thank you," Penny mutters. She accepts a bit of rabbit with caution, and a small amount of cheese, adding a whole pear to it with a deft motion that might have you calling her the thief. She has not invited you to call her Penny - but it is a step closer to such. She focuses her eyes down on her food. "It is a crime. Even if you steal from who you consider to be thieves, do you think that your theft ends there?"
     You have given her an opening, and she takes it, that one before the rest, hotly in dispute with you. The grey eyes lift to stare at you, the dried blood on her cheek forgotten. "When you stole from my sisters and myself, who in our family - in our household - did it fail to touch? The coachman aside, he was a caitiff knave, but there was my father and my mother, myself and my sisters. And each of us in turn affected others - the housemaid, the grooms. My father's aides, my mother's gardeners, the soldiers that report to my father's subalterns - how far does a rock have to be thrown? Do you imagine that there are no ripples? And the baser the person you steal from, how much more violent, how much more unpleasant are those ripples? How can you say that what you do is justice, when you don't know but that you might be condemning some woman, some child to be beaten for it, some other man murdered to make up for that loss? I... but it probably pleases you to have so much power."
     She closes her mouth on it bitterly, taking up the pear between her hands. She almost drops the pear a moment later as the rest of what you say sinks in. "You glory in your power and in your dalliances!" Penny sputters it, going crimson once again, staring at you with scandal in her eyes. "The ballads are true, then? And you are so pleased with yourself! And I was no ruder than you deserved, you stopped us and wanted to steal mama's sapphires, what possible politeness would I owe to a man who would callously demand my first kiss in exchange for jewels which weren't his to barter for in the first place!"
     She's on her feet, voice going up until she's yelling at you, her hand coming up in readiness. She's one second away from hurling the pear at your head instead of eating it. "You flirt and you tease worse than any woman I have ever had the misfortune to witness, you demand things to which you have no right, and then you say that I am rude? How dare you!" The pear leaves her hand, hurled with considerable force directly at your head. You have goaded her successfully.

     He is so swift. He not only isn't beaned by the pear but he catches it. "I have no wife. Who would marry me? How can I marry when I have no land or security to offer. Those are ripples too, Penelope. Did the king himself care what happened to those I employed?" He smirks. "And if I tease a little ... what difference does it make? I flirt... I have no woman...I do not think flirting is a crime. Or perhaps you think so... finding it frivolous as you no doubt do..."
     He smiles, masked as he is he looks more like a fox than ever. "Or should I choose one lady of all in England to flirt with exclusively, even if I can't marry her. Hmm... perhaps the most suitable woman for me is a woman who refuses to marry. She can live independently. She would only need to learn not to ask questions when new necklaces appear," he chuckles.
     Or perhaps I should remove the mask and ask you now...
     "I am not immune to power. Neither are you. You glory in making lesser men wilt before your formidability, do you not? So you can be different. Not like your sisters. Not like the other girls at the social functions..."
     He tosses the pear gently to you. Shall you throw it at him again? "You've met your match, like it or not. If you were a man, you'd be a man such as I. Were I a woman, I would wish to be as strong and commanding as you are. Though I think if I had your face, I'd smile a bit more..."
     He unstops the wineskin and offers that to you next. "It is honey cider," he notes. "Have a swallow. It is only slightly fermented...it is not a ploy to take advantage of you," the Davy wryly notes.
     Leaning back, his hands to the grass, the thief looks up to the sky. "The ballads are as true as the tales of Robin Hood. I didn't write them," he chuckles, looking over to you. "You'd have to ask those who sing it. I think it's rude to sing songs that are about yourself. A bit ... self-congratulatory..."

     She scowls. How dare you catch the pear that she's so crossly thrown at you! "You give no thought to who you hurt with what you do!" And, unconscionably, she bursts into tears. No, noone would believe it if you told it them. There is Lady Penelope Carter, distraught, weeping copiously with her hands over her face, the pear dumped to the grass. Lady Penelope, who could - and did - order Lord General Edward Dunham to leave her family's London estates so that her sisters could get some rest; Lady Penelope, who coolly and without flinching caught a girl's dog moments before it would have been trampled; Lady Penelope, whom it is rumoured, spoke out against the Black Jack Davy to his face...
     No, it is not to be believed. And yet she stands there, letting fruit fall unrecollected as she weeps.
     "You know nothing of women, do you? You're a fool! How can any woman love a man who can't claim her? How could I love a man who wouldn't?" Penny wrenches herself around so that her back is to you, shoulders hunched as she stares despairingly up at the same sky as you, as if the answers might be written there. "I don't need anything to drink. I don't need anything!"
     Maybe if she says it loudly enough, she can convince herself, even if not you...

     When your back is to him, he unties the scarf, removing his disguise, and he rises. "I did not say I would not claim the one I wanted above all others, I merely said that I had nothing to offer in the way of lands. But... the woman who has captured my heart would have everything else," he speaks softly behind you, coming to stand near you.
     For your tears, there is a beautiful silk velvet scarf, the one he was wearing if you are observant despite your tears. "I did not mean to make you weep, Mistress Penelope," he murmurs. "Even if it is in anger and hatred."
     The Davy doesn't dare to touch you, he simply offers you his name and his identity, and his secret glade. How's that for a courtship? "To be honest, I have been looking for an excuse to quit this plundering life. To earn your love is a good cause. Though my family's fortune is now... ill-gained... could you consider me a husband, Penelope?"
     Is he proposing?

     She stiffens, but doesn't turn, taking the scarf and bringing it to her eyes. And she is still quivering, little sobs disrupting her breathing, her efforts to speak. "Why must you be so cruel!"
     Oh, but she doesn't believe that you mean what you offer. How could she? "Even if I allowed myself to believe it were real, it wouldn't be real. You aren't real! You're a thief, you live in shadows and off other people's pocketbooks and misery! How would I dare to partner myself to someone and benefit by that misery - and that is if I allowed myself to think that you were not just ..."
     It wavers and wobbles away, and you see that Penny is again on the very brink of tears. She scrubs at her face with the velvet, choking back sobs. "...you just want me to say yes so that you can lay me down, like in all the songs - you thrive on those songs, don't you!" She whirls round to glower at you fiercely, blinded by tears though she is. "I know that I am not as my sisters! I am too much a gawk, I am unfashionable, my hair is not ebon or moonlight or - or anything in particular, my eyes are flat and my ankles too thick! You needn't torture me with your pretense; I've heard it all, I assure you - I /know/ that I am more a man than a woman and unattractive as well! Do you need to rub in my unnatural nature in this cruelest of fashions?"

     "I think you misunderstand me. I mean to say... I find you fascinating." The one who calls himself Rhodri is there. If you would just calm down, you might recognize him. "Frustrating," he adds on with a smile, "...but fascinating. A woman of intelligence, passion, pride, bravery. And... yes... beauty. Though she would deny it to her last breath. As much as she would deny that she can dance."
     "I gave you my name... I show you my face... you know the songs? Does the thief in those ballads ever do that? I do not expect you to believe me. No, you will have to make up your own mind. I only ask that you think. Look inside yourself. If I wanted to rape you... or seduce you... it would have happened several weeks ago."
     He remains unconcerned that you know who he is, who he isn't, his name, everything. In fact, he has offered to you everything he truly owns. Himself. "You hate me so much," an auburn eyebrow lifts. "... then reform me. Make an honest man out of me. You are up for the challenge of it, I have no doubt."

     And now - now recognition sinks in. You - at the ball. "Liar!" Penny's palm twitches, as if it's just itching to slap you; for one wild moment, it looks as if she might, distressed as she is. "You were at the dance. Why? For Helen?"
     Such jealousy...
     It cannot come without passionate feelings - passion which is incompatible with hatred...
     Her expression spasms, strong emotion and strong shock vying for dominance in her eyes, in her face, and she takes a step back. You could not have stunned her more with a blow. "...That isn't how it works," Penny tells you half-angrily. "I recognise your trap for what it is. If I say yes to that, then it does not matter if you reform or not, does it? You will have what you want, whether or not I receive anything in return! I told another man that the last thing I should wish would be waiting up to bring my husband in by morning with the wash after he's spent the night tomcatting on the tiles. He understood, even if he was papa's age! How am I to trust you, when everything til now has been a lie?"

     "Because now you know the truth," he replies simply. "And... no... you twit... I didn't go to the dance for Helen. Good god, what do I have to do to get you to listen to me? Rob you?" he responds, finally, in like kind, his voice raising momentarily. The birds shoot up out of a tree and he sighs, holding his hands out to you in a 'Keep your voice down' sort of way.
     "There's no winning with you. It drives me crazy," he says back, his voice lower but full of his own passion, his own frustration. "And because it drives me crazy," he exhales, "... I know I've met my match in you," he admits, his own face full of his various emotions. "You're full of swords, your tongue is nothing but darts and knives. Your mind is sharp, as sharp as mine. And you'd chase every man off the planet except me."
     He moves toward you now. "I don't wilt and I don't wither, for all your fire, I have a blaze of mine own. You don't fool me... you want to be loved like anybody else. You want to belong to someone. And here I stand, revealed to you, the greatest thief in all England. Without a mask. If anyone has a trap to set, lady, it's you..."

     She flinches a bit as your voice rises, and her instinctive reaction is - of course - to yell back. "You already did! What are you going to do, rob me again? I didn't bring the family silverware with me on this trip, I'm ever so sorry, but unless you want my father's copy of Metamorphoses, you are utterly," she swings the flat of her palm at your shoulder, "completely," the other palm, "out - of - luck!" Her hands grip the front of your shirt, grabbing and shaking and then pushing at you, as if to thrust you out of her circle of self-protection.
     Of course, once you are within that circle, getting you out again may prove quite another matter. "You've met me all of three times now," Penny tells you stubbornly, the colour high in your face, glance darting at you even as she suddenly pulls her hands back as if you've scalded her palms. She tucks them behind her back. "How can you claim that we are anything to one another! Because we yell at each other? I don't want to be loved," she insists stubbornly. "I don't need it! I don't need, I shouldn't need to be soft and clinging like any weepy little flower along the king's gardens - besides, I know myself for what I am! Other women are the roses, the bluebells, the honeysuckle and columbine. I'm naught but milkweed, or dandelion, or something else that people think of no more than as a pest! I didn't set out here to catch you, thief, no matter whether you're the greatest or the least thief in all England. What would my father say? Oh, yes, father, this is the Black Jack Davy, he's come courting me - never mind the price on his head, would you mind putting my dowry in the bag? Oh, no, it's fine - he'll not need a bank draught, he'll take it in jewelry and maybe the chandelier fittings!"
     She is very aware of you, and her tongue runs on as sharply as ever it has. Perhaps it is her desperation to try running you off now, now that she is so suddenly and vengefully vulnerable to you. "WHY would I have a trap to set?" Penny glares at you stubbornly, moving to step back again, now. "Why? Because you are a thief? What am I supposed to do?"

     "If I wanted a rose, I would have gone to the gardens, not to the wild woods, lady. No, I want the thistle. The nettle. The blackberry. If I wanted something from the king's garden, I'd be there. Not camped outside your father's property to have another chance to speak with you." He raises his hands now in a motion of frustration and he strides back to his fire, kicking dirt onto the embers. Now, only the moon and stars light your way.
     "I am the earl of Radnor," he replies, "...though Radnor no longer belongs to my family. I'm also the prince of Gwynedd, descended from the last princes of a free Wales. That's what you tell your father, lady," he retorts in fiery fashion. "When I lead you back to the road, I'll ride up to his door and proclaim myself for your hand..."
     Don't dare him to do it...
     He packs up his food, the light supper, what doesn't need to be tossed is packed away in the saddle bags and returned to his saddle. His black stallion nudges him affectionately. "You are the most frustrating woman. You don't listen. You dig your heels in like a mule. So afraid of everything," he mutters, but he doesn't bother to keep it beneath his breath. "Most of all yourself. God forbid you actually smile. God forbid someone actually show an interest in you..."

     With the fire gone, she is suddenly in the dark again. Mankind uses fire to ward against the dark...
     And that which lurks in the darkness beyond the fire's edge...
     She shrinks back for a moment, faltering. "Fine," Penny declares with a toss of her head, turning to go to her horse. She draws the hood of her cloak up, covering the light brown of her hair, strewn still with twigs as it is. "You're an earl and a prince, and you outrank me ten times over. I suppose you are also a general or commander and every bit as much a strategist and tactician as has been claimed of you. That does not mean that you hold my heart in your hands, nor yet does it mean that I give you leave to court me!"
     If you wait around for her permission, you will be waiting when the devil comes to take his due of you both...
     "I'm frustrating? The pot speaks with its lidded tongue wagging, only to say the kettle is blacker than thou!" She turns from picking loose the knotted reins holding Bluebell, and you receive a scowl as black as that of which she speaks. "You want what you want and you take what you want, never thinking how it might affect anyone else! Do you think that I would have gone riding to-night, had you not insisted on dancing with me the other night? Why is it that you are so intent upon me? I did nothing to court you!"

     He swings up in the saddle. "You forget, Penelope. I do not require your permission. Only your father's." And he's just crafty enough to do it. He turns his horse's head hard with the reins, turning back to look at you. You wanted to mount on your own before, now you're given that liberty.
     "And what of you, lady? You do what you wish, when you wish, giving nothing but grief to those around you while you're doing it. At least I am polite. Even when I have someone at gunpoint. A man gives the only thing ... the only real treasure he has to you, have your allowance to court you, and you harangue him." He means himself, of course. "What happened to you to make you so mule-ish. Were you made to haul water?"
     He waits for you to mount your gelding. It's no wonder that the former stallion has been cut "short". You probably gelded him with a single sentence. He never knew what hit him, he'd wager.

     "You wouldn't dare." But her tone lacks her earlier conviction. No, she isn't so sure but that you might dare - even with her knowledge of who you are - what you are. You might. And knowing her father...
     She is not entirely sure but that her father might approve of your audacity, even if not of your lawlessness, and contrive to overlook certain details...
     In which case, she would be constrained to stay silent, lest she make fools of her father and of herself, and lose in truth the few things she has any claim to esteeming. You look at her, you accuse her - and you can see a very real flinch that rocks down to the bone.
     "I have no heart to give, did you ever thing of that?" Penny climbs into her saddle without looking at you, pulling her cloak tightly around her shoulders with a shudder. "Did it never occur to you to think that maybe it was cut from me when I was still young? My sisters may have hearts. They do not know my disappointment. But if I've hurt you, I swear to you upon my name that my lack of heart is not due to who you are nor to your treatment of me - nor even to your thefts."
     Penny falls silent, then, pulling the hood forward to hide her face. After a ragged breath, she declares, "And if all I have given is grief to all those around me, then best I die sooner rather than later, even if by my own hand. I will not be a hypocrite, Lord of Radnor. I give you my word of that. If you insist upon persistence, I cannot stop you, but I make no promise as to what end your courtship will result in. Do so at your own leisure and peril."
     The hood is pulled fully forward so that she can hide within it, her hands trembling upon the reins. Bluebell can and will, no doubt, follow your lead willingly enough. Stupid horse, indeed - but what can one expect of a horse, when its mistress allows it to follow rogues such as you?

     "The only one who believes those lies is you," he retorts, turning his horse to leave the glade a different way than how he entered. There is another path, perhaps there are a multitude of paths to get to this hidden glade. But shall you ever find the heart of your woods again? "If you had no heart you would be cold as ice. You are all fire and spit and hard hammering wind. It's a distraction, to be sure, to all lesser men..."
     The one who calls himself Rhodri turns about in the saddle to look at you behind and beside him, "...but I do not give up so easily. So bring your worst, lady," he says, leaning into you suddenly, his voice an impassioned hush, "... for believe me... I shall be bringing my own..."
     With that, he reaches down, quick as a fox (no, quicker). to take a hold of Bluebell's reins and lead him, and you, through a pitch dark thicket. But far from a slow and cautious lead, he leads you through the thicket with an expert's timing and a confident trot.
     "No one without a heart would speak half so much as you do," he starts up again in a whisper. "God's teeth," an old sort of curse, anachronistic in the humanist and secular Age of Enlightenment, "... I must indeed love you... to put up with your pound of bullshit..."
     He leads you onto the road upon which you first lost your precious Bluebell, where his hand still holds your horse's lead. His black horse tosses in the start of a gentle canter, and he looks back to you to make certain you're still on the bloody thing. "Shall I become Perseus for you to hear me... or do you wish me to be your Ulysses, coming in, making demands, putting you back to the loom... ? You will protest that you wish to be alone, but yet you claim you shall live out your solitary future surrounded by your sisters, whose behavior you deplore and deride, for the rest of your life, driving them, no doubt their husbands, and lastly even yourself, lady, to prevent a moment's happiness. God forbid that you let yourself go to something other than the lives others have written down..."
     The erstwhile prince of Gwynedd looks across the darkness to you. He can angrily blast with the best of them. That is, as well as you. "You are the most... vexing... woman I have ever met..."

     There's a little gasp as you drag on the reins, as she is plunged into blackness. She is trembling in her saddle - she who never cries, fighting back a third bout of tears. "I am not fire! I am not in any way possessed of a heart!" Were this a different time, a different age, you could time her words to the beat of I am not your high-born lady! I am not any kind of a lady!
     You drag her forward to the road, and she reacts as if it is by her hair that you are dragging her rather than by her horse's reins. "I do not want for you to become someone else!" Penelope attempts to drag the reins out of your grasp. "All my life ... all my life, I have heard the truth." Grey eyes meet yours; she is trembling still, wild-eyed. "I know the truth. I do not know who this - this creature of love and marriage you claim to see might be, but it is phantasm! You spin them on the air and I don't know to what purpose - amusement? Mockery? WHY do you persist past where any other man would give up?"
     Penny collapses forward over her horse's neck, surrendering the reins to you again with a harsh sob, wrapping Bluebell's mane around her fingers. "I know that I should have been born a boy. I am ugly, and next to my sisters, hideous! What would you have me do? Believe your lies, so that when you tire of my ways, you too can pass on to my sisters? Why do you blame me for being so dull with the wear of those rocks? I do all that I can to protect them so that they at least can have what I cannot! I have ears to hear; I have heard everything everyone has said about me! Why should I dance and put on airs when I am so ill-favored? Let my temperament match so the world will have warning to keep away!"
     "Why won't you just go away..."

     "You forget who I am, Miss Penelope. I am a thief, right? A highwayman prince. I want what I want when I want it. That was it wasn't it?" As you collapse on Bluebell's neck, sobbing your ruddy heart out, Rhodri's annoyance dissolves. You feel the horse halting.
     "Take this, please. Take it and keep it. Dry your tears on it and wipe your face," he murmurs. "I cannot bear the sight of a woman crying." He's sure you shall have some retort for that! "If others do not find you lovely, it is because you have told them that they should not. Before a man has any leave of your attention at all, you've given him thrice a hundred reasons why he's wasting his time. I saw that young corporal at the dance. He wanted to dance with you. He had worked up the courage for it for nearly half an hour, only to see me waltz you onto the floor instead."
     He exhales. "I am sorry that other cads, worse men than I for all their supposed station and honor, have compared you to your sisters. Mostly, I'm simply sorry you have joined them. But I am not them, and I am most assuredly not you. Do not tell me... what to believe or not believe, what to scorn or not to scorn, I am my own man. I make up my own mind."
     The handkerchief is a beautiful lacy thing, taken no doubt from some other woman at some juncture. It is soft, worthy of the bodice of a queen. Perhaps it was. "If I go away," he says, turning about and starting to lead you along the road once more, finding his way to the main road, "... how will you ever find your way home?"

     She takes the cloth without looking, only because you press it into her hand. She is building up quite a collection from you tonight; velvet and lace. "If you cannot bear it, then do not look," Penny mumbles, wiping at her streaming eyes. "Do you think I listen just to what men say?"
     Oh, but women can be spiteful cats, can they not? You know this. Penny knows this too. Where difference is found, whispers set in - and her coldness has been her shield. And despite this, there is a moment's remorse in her eyes. "He didn't want to dance with me. At best, he wanted to dance with Lord General Carter's daughter - but not with me."
     You knew that she would remain stubborn, didn't you? The handkerchief is crumpled, and she looks down at it as she pulls herself upright. Her nose is very red now, her eyes swollen from tears. "I defy you to look upon me now and tell me that I am beautiful. You hand me linens from - I can only assume taken from other women in your past," Penny tells you wearily, looking down at the scrap in her hand. "If it is a token, how would she feel to know that you have given it to a woman who pretends she is a man?"

     "Why should she cast aspersions on you when her husband does the same?" An eyebrow cocks up in comic effect, along with the tilt of his mouth in a smile. "I dare say, you probably make a better man than he does. Perhaps I shouldn't ask to marry you," he teases gently, "... for fear that you should out-man even me."
     Inclining his head, he looks at you in a fastened way, a studying way. "Hmmm... I fear there's no danger in that, your chin isn't nearly stubborn enough, your mouth is too pink, you don't look like you've grown a first beard yet, your cheek is too soft." Bluebell snorts a little as he is pulled toward the stallion -- and you so the more near the Black Jack Davy.
     There is a pendulous moment, one in which the daring fox of a man, that thief of thieves, leans in for a kiss upon your soft cheek. You have that moment within which to act. To either do nothing and let him have his will, or to slap him. Perhaps he wants to feel your hand...
     Perhaps he wants to grab it...

     "You shouldn't ask me to marry you," Penny agrees, biting at her lower lip. She drops her chin, and so her wild and leaf-littered hair drops in attempted concealment. "I might make your life miserable."
     ...I might be too tempted to say yes...
     But that bit isn't said aloud. Her eyes are hidden, but you can see her cheeks go pink again at all of your observations. "What do you mean, her husband?" She is not following. But neither is she leading.
     You lean in to kiss her, and there's a gasp of startled breath. She is predictable. Her palm flashes up in immediate reaction, attempting to slap you. You caught her entirely by surprise the first time, which saved you from a knee being aimed for your groin. This time, she has been wary and tensed since before you first came into view.

     You stop short of making contact, as does he. Instead, his hand meets yours. "And your hands are far too small," he whispers. But he leans back, no kiss landed. "Come... the road is just ahead." Such a soothing tone. And from such a despicable character!
     He gives you control of one rein, taking another and leading you through a particularly brambly bit of path, at the end of which he surrenders its partner back to you.
     "I mean that her husband wasn't much of a man. She came to Powis Castle all too willing to surrender her lace. And everything else that came with it. She won't miss it, I assure you. She entertained several lovers that weekend, none of which were her betrothed lord. He was too busy entertaining the grooms."
     Such gossip! He is a rascal! He expects you to say it with all due drama...
     As you come upon the road, he expects you take off, to run screaming for your papa like the heroine of a fairy tale. Only, half the time the father's the one who's a problem in those things. Black Jack's stallion tosses his head at the open road, one he's normally charging down as his master pulls over the coaches on their way out of London and to the countryside.
     "But as we've discussed, Penelope, I'm always doing what I shouldn't do. It's my nature..." He smiles in the darkness.

     Her eyes widen, her lips pucker slightly. Is it disappointment that you do not kiss her anyway? But her eyes remind wide with what you go on to say...
     "...You're joking." Penny doesn't sound convinced. Her cheeks are flaming with embarrassment and scandal. "I - cannot imagine anything like that. I would never - you will never find me going to - Powis? - you will never find me going there to surrender myself to a man, nor ever entertain multiple lovers. Or even one. Not in a thousand years, Lord ..."
     You hear a frustrated little sound. "I don't even know what I am to call you! And I shouldn't even talk to you. Your nature will lead you into worse troubles than I could prepare. I do not know why you so willingly seek pain."
     There is open pain in her voice for a moment, and she looks away, at the road. The road which she should be charging down, away from you. "If," Penny says finally, "I give you leave to ... no, never mind. I suppose that I ought to thank you for finding my horse. And showing me to the road."

     "I should not wish you to surrender... ever. Not even to me. That is not why I court you," and I am courting you, that was the present tense. "Call me... Rhodri. Or if you cannot pronounce that," it does have a heavy front R, an aspiration that no doubt comes from the H that follows it, and a trill of the second R. It's a mouthful. "... Call me Jack. Or the Devil. I'm sure you can make something up that's suitable for how you feel."
     Bastard might do...
     "I am going to do more than that. I'm escorting you home. It's late, the woods are dark and you never know what sort of...brigands might be haunting the road, Miss Penelope. I would be no kind of man if I did not see you safely to your home. Besides which, there's still that matter of speaking with your father." You thought I forgot? "I will be counting this night as our third night of courtship, you realize."
     He looks at you as he moves along the path with you, undaunted on the road, a dashing black figure on a dashing black horse. And he's asking...no...promising to court you. Even without your leave. The brute. "Powis is a lovely place. You should inherit it should you marry me. It is a beautiful red castle with lovely gardens. Hills and plateaux for riding, large streams and wide trunked oaks that are made by god to sit upon and read. Wales is a beautiful place, but hardy. It put off conquerors with its intimidating countryside, but once you're in it...once you're in it," he looks to you, "... it is as sweet a land as you are ever apt to find..." And the way he looks at you, maybe he sees some of his home in you.
     "I think you would like it. Even if you hate me."

     You do not even get a glance. You see her flinch, though. "You must hate me, if you intend to talk to my father tonight." Small hands curl around the leather reins, grey eyes remain affixed to the ground ahead. "My luck has always been bad. I do not think that anything worse can befall me tonight."
     You are dashing. She is ... anything but, clad in white and grey and crimson, dried blood on her face and leaves in her hair, scrapes and bruises on her knee and ankle - hidden, those - and on her palm. There is still the visible evidence of her tears. She looks the younger for it, with her haughtiness stripped away to be replaced by this sullen misery.
     "It sounds lovely, if somewhat wild," Penny agrees unwillingly. "But I don't understand why you are doing this. Why court me? You tried to rob me, and now ... I don't understand you." Her face twists and contorts, and there is a sudden return of her spirit. "Of course I hate you! You are a thief, and you are insisting upon taking what I do not willingly give! How ought I to feel? Bah! Men!" She pulls on the reins abruptly, spurring her horse forward.
     Bluebell is no match for your stallion, but she nevertheless is trying to escape upon the gelding nonetheless. She must have finally gained her bearings, to make so sudden and daring a move.

Posted by rowan at August 19, 2005 08:47 PM